


Disaster Awareness

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Barbara is the Best, Chaos, Christmas Party, Damian is a brat, Dick is an Awesome Brother, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Jason is a Dork, Steph is a menace, Utter Chaos, tim is so done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6355606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There seems to be some sort of conflict over there,”  <br/>“Yeah,” Babs sighed, “This happens every year.”  <br/>“What?”  <br/>“My roommate, Tim, works here, and every year he drags me and our two other roommates to this party and every year Steph and Jason do something crazy and Tim gets pissed and everything kind of explodes from there.  Frankly, I’m kind of surprised we haven’t been banned yet.”  </p>
<p>In which Jason and Steph make a mess, Babs makes some friends, and Tim is long-suffering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disaster Awareness

**Author's Note:**

> In an ironic turn of events, my roommate got me hooked on 'New Girl', a sitcom about roommates. One of the episodes in season 1 inspired this fic...which I did not get around to writing until I was halfway through season 3 on Netflix because reasons. 
> 
> Anyway, I definitely have more headcanons for this universe so if people are interested I might consider writing more of these, we'll see.

            “Tim’s going to kill someone with a toothpick.”

            “Really? Because I’m definitely getting a stapler vibe from him.”

            “A toothpick murder involves finesse, skill.”

            “And a stapler doesn’t?”

            “I’m just saying, Tim’s a classy guy, he’s not going to go for a used murder weapon.”

            “A used murder weapon?” Steph stared at Jason incredulously, as if that was the weird part of this conversation.

            “Anything that’s appeared as a murder weapon on a mainstream mystery show is officially a ‘used weapon’. According to Jason,” Babs interjected before the man in question could go on whatever bizarre rant went with that assertion.

            “Exactly,” Jason said with great gravity, as if some important point had been proven.

            “Seriously, guys?” Tim, now standing in the doorway, burdened with briefcase, an excess of file folders (seriously, how many file folders did one person, office, really, _anything_ need?) and a bag of Chinese takeout, “We’re betting on murder weapons now?”

            “If you go to that office Christmas party alone, one of two things will happen,” Steph declared with an air of great authority, “One, you’ll get really, _really_ drunk and make many, _many_ mistakes”

            “- Article four, section eight of the roommate agreement, we do not speak of Christmas 2013,” Tim interjected.

            “Hey, rude, no interrupting,” Stephanie threw a pair of balled up socks at him, hitting him neatly between the eyes.

            “Leave my laundry out of this!” Jason protested, shoving Steph aside to go after the wayward socks, grabbing them out of Tim’s hands, stalking back to the sofa, and resuming folding laundry with military precision.

            “ _Or_ ,” Stephanie dragged them back to the topic at hand as Barbara snickered quietly to herself, “You grab the nearest sharp instrument and commit mass homicide. So we, as your loyal roommates and friends, are going with you to your stupid party. You’re welcome.”

            “Do I get a say in this?” Tim asked warily, “And Jason, they were out of spring rolls so I just got extra egg rolls.”

            “Not acceptable.”

            “Take it up with the restaurant.”

            “No, Jason,” Barbara cautioned, “Do _not_ take it up with the restaurant, “Tim, you know better than to goad Jason into pointless feuds with local businesses.”

            “Hey, my feud with the dry cleaner’s is totally valid.”

            “No, it’s really not,” Barbara said, patting him consolingly on the shoulder.

            “And you all think I’m the crazy one,” Tim muttered.

            “No, just the one most likely to go on a rampage while hopped up on spiked eggnog,” Steph explained cheerily, “Big difference. Jason’s got a 50/50 shot of going on a rampage without alcoholic incentive.”

            Jason stopped what he was doing, turned around, methodically unfolded all of Stephanie’s (bright purple) socks, scooped them up and dumped them over her head in a soft cottony shower. She yelped, batting at his hands and spitting sock out of her mouth.

            “So, in summary,” Barbara took over clothing-folding, “We’re your friends and we’re going with you to your dumb office Christmas party for the job you hate so you don’t snap and slap a bitch.”

            Tim just gave her a blank, resigned stare, “I’m not sure if you guys are the best roommates ever or just unilaterally suck.”

            Steph punched Jason in the stomach and he retaliated by grabbing a pillow and smacking her with it repeatedly.

            “A little of both?” Barbara offered.

            Tim just sighed the sigh of a condemned man and resumed unpacking the takeout.

…

            “I do not require – ” Damian paused to sneeze, “Cold medication. I am the pinnacle of health.”

            “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” his (diabolical) elder brother sing-songed.

            “Richard, you are twenty-eight years old, you are officially too old for the ‘liar liar’ song.” Damian’s last few syllables were garbled with sniffles and sad little coughs.

            Dick grinned at him, “No one’s too old for the liar song.”

            “Lies.”

            Dick grinned, if possible, even more. “Do you want to sing the song?”

            “No.”

            “Come on, Dami – ”

            “Do not call me that.”

            “You know you want to sing the song.”

            “I do not.” He punctuated this declaration with an enormous sneeze and a few raspy coughs.

            Dick’s face switched from playful to concerned like someone turning off a lamp. Against Damian’s protests he felt his forehead for fever, “You’re feeling a little warm, kiddo, think you have a fever?”

            Damian glared at him.

            “I’m going to get you some kid’s Dayquil, okay?”

            “If I must suffer the indignity of medicating a nonexistent illness, might I at least have the self-respect to take adult medicine?”

            “No, because you’re ten.”

            “My age is irrelevant.”

            Dick stared at him, “That is so incredibly not correct. You really must be sick.”

            Damian sneezed and glared at him some more. Stupid worried older brothers.

…

            “I have sweaters!” Steph chirped, coming out of her bedroom with an ominously large box.

            “NO!” chorused the rest of the loft’s inhabitants, seated on the couch and cringing away from the box and the person attached to it.

            Jason kicked Tim when he was slow to refuse the knitted monstrosity. “No,” he muttered, aiming a vicious kick at Jason’s legs and earning a slap to the face with a pillow.

            “Steph, do we have to wear the sweaters to the party?” Barbara asked reasonably as she yanked the pillow out of Jason’s hands, hit each of the boys once with it for good measure, and tossed it out of their reach. “Isn’t this thing kind of business casual?”

            “It’s a _Christmas_ –”

            Tim held up a cautionary finger “ – non-religious holiday of your choice – ”

            Stephanie rolled her eyes, “ – party. I’m pretty sure tacky sweaters are acceptable.

            “Tacky sweaters are never acceptable,” Jason growled.

            “Wrong, Mr. Grumpy-pants,” Steph said, leveling a finger at his face, “Tacky sweaters are perfection, don’t make me fight you.”

            Tim buried his face in his hands and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Social suicide, why me?”

…

            “I am perfectly capable of self-supervision. I do not require a babysitter,” Damian was clearly struggling to maintain his haughty tone with a perpetually running nose and a persistent sneeze-cough.

            “Ah, about that, Little D…” Dick hedged.

            “What.” Damian narrowed his eyes at him.

            “It would seem you’ve scared off every babysitter in the area. I know. I called all of them.”

            “Dammit. I thought I’d hidden the numbers better.”

            “Language,” Dick corrected absently, “And with Dad out of the country and Alfred with him, I’m the only one left who can take your… _unique_ way of showing affection.”

            “I never show affection. Affection is –” sneeze, “-weakness.”

            “That…would seem to be the issue, kiddo,” Dick held out the box of tissues, “So you’re gonna have to come with me to the office party. I promise we won’t be there long, but my supervisor said it’s mandatory so I have to at least show up. And if there’s no one to watch you, you’re going to have to come with.”

            Damian shot him a despairing look and flopped backwards onto the couch. “Why must you torture me?”

…

            “Tim’s small and fast, he’ll catch you before you reach the lobby.”

            Jason shot Barbara a look that was equal parts offended, impressed and betrayed. “I wasn’t going to make a run for it,” he finally grumbled.

            Babs raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

            “I was considering the merits of jumping out a window.”

            “No.”

            “I would live.”

            “Maybe.”

            “Worth a shot?”

            “No, Jason.”

            “Okay, what if I push the next sycophant to compliment this stupid sweater out the window instead?”

            “No, Jason.” One of these days Babs was going to just give up and say ‘Fine, Jason, do whatever you want, I don’t care’; this did not appear to be that day, “Ten bucks in the Moral Ambiguity Jar.”

            Jason looked affronted, “What the hell, Babs? I was _kidding_. How come Tim doesn’t have to put money in a stupid jar every time he goes homicidal?”

            “He makes a blanket payment at the beginning of every month. At the end of the month I tally up his expenses and he pays any overages. It’s like a rage tax.”

            Jason gave her a blank, horrified stare. “You are an evil genius.”

            “Thanks, I know.”

            “I still hate this party.”

            “I know.”

            “And this sweater.”

            “That has been established.”

            Nearby someone said something and a whole passel of dubiously sober women in pencil skirts erupted into giggle-cackles. ‘Jingle Bells’ crackled overhead and Jason tried to brush silver glitter out of his sweater only to wind up smacking it over and over again and making absolutely no difference. Tim had been consumed by the crowd and Stephanie had wandered off to wreak havoc somewhere out of direct sight.

            Barbara caught sight of Tim out of the corner of her eye. The giggling pencil-skirt women had caught up to him and one was in the middle of telling some sort of story that seemed to involve a lot more physical contact than strictly necessary. Specifically physical contact with Tim. Who looked like he might spontaneously combust. Whether from shame, rage, or social awkwardness, it was impossible to tell. But that woman’s hand had managed to explore a good deal of his arm and was migrating over to his chest already.

            “Oh shit, Timmy’s in trouble,” Jason sounded like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to cackle or sigh, “Rock paper scissors on who has to go rescue him?”

            “You’re on.”

…

            Damian was hiding. Not particularly well, but a token effort was made. There was something of a dearth of hiding places in the standard cubicle farm and if he hid too successfully (i.e. in the vents) Dick would get _concerned_ and do something socially inappropriate. Like try to follow him.

            No, best to ‘hide’ somewhere easily accessible so his elder brother could find him and ‘check in’ like the hovering mother hen he was.

            Damian slouched against the leg of the table he sat under. This hiding spot was terrible. Anyone could see him.

            No one seemed particularly bothered to look but Dick.

            “Hey, little bro, you doing okay?”

            “Your grammar is atrocious.”

            “So’s your face,” Dick retorted amicably, grinning even wider at Damian’s perplexed stare. Richard was not _stupid_ ; Damian did not see why he persisted in using these trite, pop-culture-laded comebacks.

            “I am fine. Your co-workers are intoxicated.”

            Dick grimaced, “That they are, kiddo. Not a great party to take a kid to, huh?”

            Damian sniffed. His nose was running again and his head felt a bit too light on his neck. Like a giant balloon full of phlegm, and wasn’t that a pleasant image. “Not particularly. But I’m not precisely a ‘normal child’ by all accounts so I think you are doing adequately in your role as temporary caretaker.”

            “Aw, Dami, that’s so sweet,” Dick was smiling at him all fond and ridiculous, “Is there anything else you need? Tissues? Cough drops? Food? I’ve got some water bottles in my cubicle’s mini fridge. The eggnog’s pretty much all booze at this point.”

            “I am fine here. Go, socialize with your peer group. You keep telling me that’s important for normal psychological development.”

            “Aw, you do care.”

            “Just _go_.” Anything else Damian might have said was swallowed up by a sneeze.

…

           Babs dropped into the first empty desk chair she could find, at the periphery of the party. She wondered if anyone would mind if she just took her boots off and passed out here. Judging by the state of inebriation demonstrated by the room at large, she figured no one would be bothered if she took off her shoes…but her chances of finding them a few hours later when she wanted to leave were low.

            So. The boots stayed. This is what she got for trying to dress up one of Steph’s ugly Christmas sweaters. Pinched toes, sore heels, and a deep sense of regret.

            Across the room there was a crash that could not mean anything good.

            Grimacing, Barbara pulled out her phone and texted Jason and Steph.

BABS

Are you just seriously trying to be so obnoxious that Tim forgets how much he hates this place and everyone in it?

STEPH

If we say yes are you going to be mad…???

BABS

…I can’t decide if that’s genius or diabolical.

JASON

Tim’s gonna murder us, but at least it was fun while it lasted.

G2G, have mistletoe, will travel

BABS

You’re a menace

STEPH

Wait for me!

            Babs sighed fondly and locked her phone screen. Tim was going to be _mad_.

            “What are you doing here?” a small, imperious voice demanded from the general vicinity of the table beside her. Only, it came out more like ‘wha ya doin here’ because whoever was speaking was clearly suffering from the cold of the century.

            “Sitting. You?”

            A snort that was half sniffle, “You are being deliberately obtuse.”

            Barbara craned her neck to eye the spot under the table where the voice was emanating from. A little kid, maybe ten years old, glared back at her, blue eyes bright and watery in a flushed face. Yep, definitely a cold.

            “And you’re hiding under a table. Which one of us is acting more mature?”

            The kid didn’t have a smart-aleck response for that.

…

            Tim was going to _kill_ his roommates. Kill. With his bare hands if he had to.

            Somehow the two of them had managed to rig up one of the decorative life-sized Santa sleighs into a _kissing booth_ and were charging tipsy office drones a dollar a smooch to have the (dubious, so, so, dubious) honor of kissing either Jason or Stephanie.

            Tim wasn’t sure which was worse, that they’d started this little operation in the first place of that they were _making a profit_.

…

            “Hey, troll,” Barbara said, grinning mischievously when the kid in question grumbled at her, “No complaining about the nickname, kid; you’re hiding under a table and grouching at people, be glad I didn’t make _more_ Three Billy Goats Gruff jokes.”

            “I do not wish to be infantilzed.”

            “Awesome. Because that’s not what I’m doing at all.”

            “You are comparing me to a character from a children’s book. For infants.”

            “I’m pretty sure infants don’t get the subtle nuances of troll taxation systems.”

            “It’s demeaning.”

            “No, it’s a sign of affection. Nicknames mean we’re bonding. And/or I don’t know your name. Take your pick.”

            The kid huffed, “I don’t know your name either.”

            “Barbara. Barbara Gordon. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand for him to shake. The angle was awkward, mostly because she was sitting and he was hiding under a table, but still. It would be horribly uncouth of him to refuse it.

            He shook the hand. “Damian,” he admitted grudgingly.

            “Nice to meet you, Damian. See, now that we know each other I don’t have to call you ‘troll’ anymore.”

…

            “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Tim hissed at Jason, who was counting crumpled dollar bills with a slightly manic grin on his face.

            “Making a buck.”

            Tim did not face-palm because Tim was an adult.

            “ _Jason_.”

            Jason grinned, _“Timothy_.”

            Somewhere behind Tim a woman griped, “Hey, if you’re gonna cut in line just pay and get out of the way.”

            Tim ground his teeth. This was why his dentist was concerned about his tooth enamel.

…

            “So, what brings you here, Damian?” Barbara was 95% sure that Steph and Jason had set up some extremely shady business in the corner and 100% sure she did not want to get involved.

            “My elder brother is… _employed_ here.”

            “Why the tone of derision?”

            “He could have a much loftier position in the company if he were to only ask our father for help. But he insists on ‘working his way up’ and ‘paying his dues’. He is apparently too thick-headed to realize the many benefits of nepotism.”

            Barbara choked on a laugh, _this kid._ “Really?”

            “Yes.”

            “Hmm,” she pretended to consider it, “Don’t you think people are more likely to respect your brother, want to do their work better, more efficiently, if they think he’s one of them? If they’ve worked beside him and know they can trust him, that he’s working just as hard as they are?”

            A pause and then, almost tentative, “Like comrades in battle?”

            “Yeah, sure.”

            “Ah.” Another pause and then, “Thank you, you are the first person to attempt to explain this logically to me. I understand now.”

            “Oh, good. Glad to help.”

            “Would…” an awkward pause, as if Damian wasn’t quite sure what the next conversational steps were but was going to push his way through anyway, “Would you care to play a…” he struggled with the word, “ _Game._ With me?”

            “What kind of game?”

            Back on steadier ground, Damian seemed to regain some of his poise, “the rules are simple. One person is given thirty seconds to visually examine the room. Then they must close their eyes and answer any questions about the scene that their partner asks them. For example: how many hats are present and what kind. Then the roles reverse. Points are gained or lost for correct and incorrect answers. Do you understand?”

            “Yeah, do you want to look or ask first?”

…

            Tim wasn’t quite clear on how he’d ended up arguing with the woman in the back of the line about what constituted ‘cutting in line’, but here he was.

            “Listen, lady, I’m not even a customer,” Tim had given up sounding reasonable two minutes ago, “These idiots are my roommates and – ”

            “You don’t get to cut just because you live with them. Back of the line, pretty boy.”

            This woman was getting very aggressive. And that ‘pretty boy’ comment stung. It wasn’t _Tim’s_ fault he was of average height. Just, when you’re best friends with a muscle-bound _giant_ , you tend to come off looking more than a little shrimpy (dammit, Jason, this was your fault).

            “ _Pretty boy_?” Tim growled incredulously, behind him he could hear Jason suck in a breath and mutter, ‘shit’s about to get real’.

…

            “Fourteen purses, five clutches and…what are we calling man-bags? Satchels?”

            “Purses.”

            “Okay, fifteen purses, five clutches, and six briefcases.”

            “Excellent, Gordon.”

            Barbara snorted, “You realize whenever you say that it sounds like you’re talking to my dad?”

            Damian sniffled, his cold really was wretched, poor brat, “That would be an impossibility as I have never met your father,” the last few syllables were consumed by a sneeze.

            “You want a tissue?”

            “No.”

            “You sure?”

            “Yes.”

            Barbara listened to him sniffle pathetically for a few more moments before rolling her eyes and fishing a packet of tissues out and shoving them at him. “Don’t be disgusting. Stubborn and gross or clean and less gross, take your pick.”

            He picked clean and less gross.

            “Good choice.”

…

            Tim’s verbal slap fight with Rude Woman had escalated. It was now a verbal slap fight with half the line.

            “I hate you,” he heard Jason mutter behind him above the din.

            “This is your fault, jerk,” Tim said through his teeth.

            “Yeah, this was kind of inevitable,” sighed Stephanie, “But it was fun while it lasted.”

…

            “There seems to be some sort of conflict over there,” Damian observed.

            “Yeah,” Babs sighed, “This happens every year.”

            “What?” Damian sounded suspicious.

            “My roommate, Tim, works here, and every year he drags me and our two other roommates to this party and every year Steph and Jason do something crazy and Tim gets pissed and everything kind of explodes from there. Frankly, I’m kind of surprised we haven’t been banned yet.”

            “Entertainment value,” Damian snorted, “My father has a…peculiar sense of humor.”

            “And your father is?”

            “Bruce Wayne.”

            Babs sighed, of course it was. Or course the son of Wayne Enterprise’s CEO was hiding under a table at an office party of WE’s mid-level office hirelings. And of course she called him a troll and threw tissues at him. Go figure.

            “So you’re Damian Wayne.”

            “Yes. That has been established.”

            “So your brother that works here is…”

            “Dick Grayson,” a smooth new voice interjected and Babs did not jump in surprise because, frankly, her startle reflex had died a quiet death around the fifteen millionth time Tim and his silent feet just _appeared_ somewhere and/or Steph attack-hugged from nowhere or Jason just barged into a room without knocking.

            “Possessed of an uncanny sense of timing,” Damian muttered.

            “Hi, hello, how are you, are you magic?” Dick asked, all boyish charm and bright blue eyes. If all of Gotham didn’t know Grayson wasn’t adopted, she might have thought they were blood brothers with those blue eyes and dark hair. “Because Dami’s _talking_ to you. Civilly. Do you know how many people he talks to civilly? Not many.”

            “Go away, Grayson,” Damian grumped, “We were having a very polite, adult conversation before _you_ showed up.”

            Babs snuck a look at the little terror. He was smiling at his brother, mouth twitching upwards as if against his will.

            Barbara smiled to herself. Damian may be aloof and occasionally downright churlish, but the way his face temporarily lit up at the sight of his brother couldn’t be pretense.

            “So,” Grayson tossed a look over his shoulder, “Looks like a good chunk of the party’s descending into chaos, wanna blow this popsicle stand?”

            “No. I wish to depart. No idiomatic popsicle stands required.”

            Grayson laughed, “Come on, kiddo, let’s go.”

            Damian crawled out from under the table, pointedly ignoring the hand Grayson held out to help him up. He paused, about to stride away, before turning back to Barbara, scrutinizing her with sharp blue eyes. Babs resisted the urge to sit up straighter and tuck her hair behind her ear.

            “May Gordon accompany us?” the little boy asked, a hint of uncertainty coloring his words.

            Grayson _beamed_ , the joyful expression just eating up his (very handsome, really, Tim should have _told_ her how disturbingly hot his coworkers were) face, “Aw, Dami, you made a friend. Not really an age-appropriate friend, but that’s okay, you’re trying.”

            The teasing either went over Damian’s head or his frown-glare was all part of the game, “Do not be absurd, Grayson.”

            Grayson ruffled his hair and turned his attention back to Babs, “I’m going to assume your first name _isn’t_ Gordon?” he paused, seemed to realize that was potentially offensive, and backtracked, “I mean, if it is, that’s cool too. But…”

            “It’s Barbara Gordon,” she decided to put him out of his misery before he strained something in the name of political correctness.

            He grinned at her, earlier embarrassment pushed aside in favor of addressing the new information she offered, “Dick Grayson,” he flushed scarlet, “I mean, I’m Dick Grayson. I mean, I said that already.” He paused, “I’m going to stop talking now.”

            “An excellent choice,” Damian sniped, huffing when Dick ruffled his hair again.

            “Nice to meet you.”

            “I swear to god I’m normally smoother than this,” he claimed, ignoring the doubtful glances his little brother was shooting him.

            “Oh I don’t know, you’re not too bad,” Babs gave him a smile, “I’m agreeing to go with you guys, aren’t I? Although, fair warning, I am a black belt, so no funny business,” she gave him a sharp smile to make it clear the statement could be a joke or a threat, depending.

            “You’re going with us?” Dick grinned again, then switched tracks while making for the door, “A black belt in what?”

            “That’s for me to know and assholes who try to mug me to find out.”

…

            After the altercation between Tim and a third of the inebriated party guests of office block 4D was settled, he, a mildly shamefaced Stephanie, and a wholly unrepentant Jason regrouped, only to find the same string of texts on their phones.

 

BABS

Hey guys, you’re going to have to get a cab home.

I’m out getting ice cream with Damian Wayne and his hot older brother.

Hope you had fun and aren’t in jail…

…Text me if you’re in jail, okay?

Anyway, I’ll be back…sometime, I don’t know.

Dick wants to go to the 24 hour arcade and Damian looks like he might actually explode if he touches a PacMan machine so we’ll see how this goes.

Text me when you get home safe.

Don’t end up in jail.

<3 :-)

 

            Tim just blinked dumbly at the screen for a few more seconds, not even bothering to click on the photo attachment. Steph did and swore. “Damn, she won the Christmas party.”

            Jason snorted, “You can’t win Christmas – ”

            “-non-religious holiday of - ” Tim began to interject then just sighed, “Fuck it, carry on.”

            “You can’t win the Christmas party! That is strictly for reunions only.”

            Steph rolled her eyes and held out her phone, the selfie Babs had taken of her and Dick Grayson and a glower-smiling kid they had to assume was Damian Wayne at a Baskin Robbins with waffle cones.

            “Fuck, she won the Christmas party,” Jason sighed, “But we made 113 dollars so I think we’re a solid second place.”

            “Did I just lose the Christmas party?” Tim asked incredulously.

            “Tim, honey,” Steph said gently, “You always lose the Christmas party.”

            Tim slapped both hands over his face and groaned. “Why am I friends with you?”

            “Fuck,” Jason sighed, “Now I want ice cream. Hey, who wants to crash Babs’ playdate with the Waynes?”

            Steph whooped, “24-HOUR ARCADE, YEAH!”

            Tim sighed, “Merry Christmas, everyone.”

            “That’s the spirit, Tim.”


End file.
